by Olivia Drake
“I see,” she said coldly. “When exactly did this affair occur? After all, widows are allowed to enjoy a discreet liaison. Unlike debutantes.”
Kitty squirmed beneath Rory’s direct gaze. “Actually, it happened … a little while before your father’s death.”
She had cheated on Papa.
A hard knot clenched inside Rory. She burned with fury for her father’s sake. This vain, foolish woman had broken her marriage vows in order to indulge her selfish desires. “Did Papa know about this affair?”
Biting her lip, Kitty looked down at her lap. “Yes, I did confess it to him. And he forgave me. I hope that you can, too.”
Rory scrutinized her stepmother. She sensed the woman was holding something back. “Since you kept them, these love letters must have meant a great deal to you. If you were truly repentant, you’d have burned them.”
“I wish I had. You can’t imagine how much.” Kitty sniffled, dabbing at her moist eyes. “Oh, I simply must get those letters back. If they’re published, I will be subject to the most vicious gossip. I’ll be ruined!”
“Retire to the country, then, as I was forced to do. It will all blow over eventually.”
“You don’t understand. The Duke of Whittingham will not abide any scandal in his fiancée’s family. Last season, he cried off an engagement to Lady Mary Hastings when her sister eloped with a dancing master.”
“Apparently, the duke is unaware of me, then.”
“Eight years have passed. I managed to convince him that everyone has forgotten your little indiscretion, and you don’t live in London, anyway. That is why he mustn’t know you’re back.”
“I see. I’m to be hidden away like a madwoman in Bedlam.”
Kitty held out her hands in supplication. “Pray don’t take it ill, Aurora. It’s only necessary for you to lie low until after the wedding. And please, you must help. If not for my sake, then for Celeste’s.”
She had struck upon the only argument that held any weight. Rory could not subject her sister to the shame of a scandal. Taking a deep breath to ease her tension, she said, “The letters may have been stolen during Celeste’s ball. There must have been a great many people here. Do you have any idea who the culprit might be?”
“Indeed, I do! The villain is Lord Dashell.”
“The Marquess of Dashell? That old rogue?” Rory recalled him as a ruddy-faced lecher who’d had a bad habit of pinching the ladies and making them squeal.
“No. It wasn’t William. He died in a coaching accident last year.” She sniffled a little more, her mouth drawing downward. “Rather, I’m referring to his eldest son, Lucas. The present marquess.”
Rory lifted an eyebrow. Lucas Vale? Impossible.
The man was a stone-faced prig. A few times during her debut season, she’d caught him glowering at her when she’d been surrounded by a bevy of suitors. Only once had he solicited her hand for a dance, and although his darkly attractive looks and powerful form had caused her heart to flutter, it had been difficult to make conversation with such an aloof sourpuss. He’d scarcely uttered a word in response to her chatty comments. Afterward, he had walked away with nary a good-bye. Too cold and straitlaced to be deemed handsome, he was the opposite of his happy-go-lucky sire.
“What nonsense,” she scoffed. “He’s even stuffier than Whittingham. What possible motive could he have for stealing your old billets-doux?”
“There is a reason, actually.” Kitty squirmed in her seat. “You see…”
“Whatever it is, say it.”
“All right, then! My affair was with his father. It was William who wrote those love letters to me. So, of course, his son has a vested interest in them.”
Rory pinched her lips tightly. Kitty had betrayed Papa for that old roué? A man so dissipated, he’d been known to fall down drunk in the middle of a crowded ballroom? A man who’d driven his carriage through Hyde Park with a garishly painted lightskirt at his side? “Good heavens! What did you ever see in him?”
Kitty lowered her gaze. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“No, I suppose I wouldn’t.” Controlling her disgust, Rory forced herself to focus on the current problem. “None of this makes any sense. Why would Dashell threaten to publish his father’s correspondence? It would bring scandal on his family as well as ours.”
“Oh, but I daren’t risk it, for he is a cold, vindictive man! And on the night of the ball, I saw him in the morning room, lecturing his brother. That must have been when he found the letters and recognized his father’s penmanship. He put them into his pocket right then and there, you may be sure of it!”
“I still say he would be more likely to dispose of the letters than to blackmail you.”
“Not if he is in dire need of funds.” Kitty leaned forward in the manner of a gossip with a juicy tidbit to relate. “Rumor has it that he’s squandered his entire inheritance by making a string of bad investments. His estates are mortgaged to the hilt.”
Rory frowned. “He never struck me as the reckless sort. Are you certain he didn’t inherit his debts?”
Kitty nodded her head vigorously. “Absolutely certain! I have it on the very best authority from Lady Milford. He lost everything on the Exchange—along with a fleet of merchant ships that sank in a storm. Now, he’s said to be in the market for a rich bride, but even that may not be enough to save him from utter ruin.”
“I see. Well, I daresay it is possible, then.”
“It’s more than possible. It’s the truth. Anyway, everyone knows what a grouch he is, so unlike his charming, fun-loving papa. Why, the man is so heartless he wouldn’t blink an eye while robbing me blind. Even Lady Milford agreed he is the likely culprit.”
Rory considered the matter. A destitute man, even a rigidly proper one, might stoop to desperate measures. And she was inclined to believe Lady Milford’s testimonial. Her ladyship was a highly respected, intelligent woman who would never accuse a fellow aristocrat of thievery without just cause. If she said Lord Dashell had taken the letters, then it must be so.
“Do you have the blackmail note?” Rory asked. “I should like to see it.”
“It is in the bottom drawer of the desk. That’s why I snapped at you for sitting there. I feared you might stumble across it before I had the chance to explain matters.” Dabbing at her eyes, Kitty slumped weakly against the cushions. “Will you be a dear and fetch the note—both of them?”
“There’s more than one?”
“Yes, another arrived this very morning. I surrendered my diamond necklace to the villain several days ago, but he is still refusing to return the letters. And he is demanding another payment by week’s end!”
Going to the desk, Rory opened the bottom drawer. She found the two folded notes and examined them on the desk. Each bore a broken red wax seal without any identifying mark. The paper was standard vellum, the sort that could be purchased at any stationer’s store.
As she scanned the brief messages, a chill feathered down her spine. There was something vaguely familiar about the masculine script, but it was an elusive impression, nothing more. Had she ever seen Lord Dashell’s handwriting? She couldn’t recall. In her brief debut season, she’d been inundated with poems and flowers from a myriad of suitors. Eight years had passed since then, and perhaps she’d forgotten about receiving a scribbled card from the marquess.
“May I take these two notes?” she asked. “I should like to compare them to a sample of Lord Dashell’s penmanship.”
Kitty made a remarkable recovery from her weepy malaise. She sat up straight, her face brightening with a smile. “Then you’ll find the letters for me? Oh, bless you, dear girl!”
Rory despised helping the woman who’d betrayed Papa. Kitty ought to be forced to reap the rotten fruits of her wickedness. Yet there was Celeste to consider. Her sister didn’t deserve to suffer the stigma of her mother’s sins.
“I shall require a fee for my services,” Rory said, rising to her feet to aim a steely-eyed look
at Kitty. “Papa set aside a dowry for me. Since I’m unlikely to marry, you will grant those funds to me as payment.”
“But … that’s three thousand pounds! Between the expense of your sister’s wedding and the blackmailer demanding a thousand by the end of the week, why, I could never manage it!”
“Half the amount, then. Fifteen hundred.”
Kitty narrowed her eyes in a calculating glare. “A thousand pounds, for I should rather pay it to you than to that villain. And if you fail, you shall receive nothing.”
“I won’t fail.”
Rory could hardly contain her delight. It was only a third of what she’d asked, but she’d never expected Kitty to part with more than a measly hundred or so. She wanted to dance around the room. It would be a windfall to have a thousand pounds at her disposal. With the funds, she could provide for her aunt, so that Bernice wouldn’t feel obliged to count every penny.
“I must call on Lord Dashell,” she said. “Do you suppose he will refuse to receive a fallen woman? Never mind, I won’t allow him to turn me away. I will devise an excuse to make him write a few lines so that I might check his script against the blackmail notes.”
Kitty levered herself up from the chaise and came toward Rory. “It will take more than a brief visit to find the letters. Why, they could be anywhere! You’ll have to comb through his entire house—and such an enormous one it is!”
“I’ll think of a way. Though I doubt he’ll be inviting me to dinner anytime soon.”
“I know the very thing. Dashell has an invalid mother. She’s quite the harridan, and he’s had terrible trouble keeping companions employed. However, if you were to secure the post, you’d have ample opportunity to conduct a search.”
Rory’s attention perked. The situation would be perfect, giving her access to private areas of his palatial home in Grosvenor Square. “How do you know the position is open at the moment?”
“Lady Milford assured me of it! I declare, no one knows the goings-on of society better than her. You could have knocked me over with a feather when she offered to help.” Kitty took Rory by the arm and steered her to the door of the library. “Come quickly now, there’s no time to waste. You must go at once and apply for the post.”
Chapter 5
An heiress is of great interest to a gentleman with empty pockets.
—MISS CELLANY
Lucas Vale, the fifth Marquess of Dashell, was about to take a bride. That is, when he decided upon the right time to ask her.
His soon-to-be fiancée, Miss Alice Kipling, poured tea in his drawing room for a small group of family and guests. He watched her graceful movements as she handed cups to her mother and to Lucas, then to his brother, Lord Henry, and Henry’s closest friend, Perry Davenport.
Alice Kipling might not be a blue blood, but she embodied the perfect English lady: golden hair arranged in smooth ringlets, a flawless complexion the color of peaches and cream, and a slender figure outlined by a pale rose silk gown. In addition to her physical assets, she had a modest demeanor and an impeccable reputation. She was neither a flirt nor a chatterbox. Whenever he caught her eye, she smiled shyly and blushed.
Having dealt all his life with a petulant mother, Lucas appreciated docility in a woman. More importantly, though, he appreciated the fact that Miss Kipling’s father was enormously rich, the owner of a number of textile mills in Manchester. Her marriage portion was rumored to be an astronomical fifty thousand.
He needed those funds. Desperately. He would marry a horse-faced harpy for that amount of cash. It would go a long way toward alleviating his dire financial situation. So why hadn’t he made his offer already?
Lucas analyzed his vague reluctance. It had nothing to do with her common blood, for Miss Alice Kipling had been well trained for the role of nobleman’s wife. Her fortune and manners ensured she would be accepted by society. Perhaps his feet-dragging had to do with the prospect of ending his bachelorhood. He was loath to upset the well-oiled routine of Dashell House. Females tended to change things, to make demands, to redecorate and run up bills. Yet the deed had to be done. At thirty-two, he had a duty to ensure an heir to the title.
He also had a duty to safeguard his estates, which at present lay in rack and ruin. He and Miss Kipling would make a fair trade: the title of marchioness in exchange for a pile of gold. The match would be equally advantageous to them both.
As Alice took her own cup and seated herself beside him on the chaise, her mother smiled approvingly from her chair by the hearth. A broad-featured woman with mousy brown hair and a well-fed figure, Mrs. Kipling had been none too subtle in pushing her daughter at him for the past month.
“Perfectly done, my dear,” she said to Alice. “His lordship must be most impressed by your effort.”
“Please, Mama,” Alice said, her cheeks turning pink. “I’m sure he can find nothing to admire in such a simple task.”
“Well, then, let us ask him. What do you think, Lord Dashell?”
Lucas blanked on her meaning. What had been said while he’d been woolgathering? Had he missed some vital element in the conversation?
Lounging in his chair, Henry caught Lucas’s eye. The enjoyment that lit his brother’s face made him look like a younger version of their late sire, with the same startling blue eyes and roguish smile. Henry’s tousled hair might be brown rather than gray, yet he shared their father’s penchant for debonair garb and, regrettably, his devil-may-care manner, as well.
His lips twitched in a grin, Henry slyly pointed his forefinger at his cup.
Tea. The women were talking about Alice pouring the tea.
“I can find no fault in your performance, Miss Kipling.” Lucas fumbled for a better compliment. He’d never cared for small talk. It seemed a waste of time and effort. Lifting the cup, he took a sip. “May I say, you’ve added the perfect amount of cream.”
Miss Kipling glanced at her mother, who gave her daughter a slight nod. A silent message seemed to pass between them. Then the girl looked back at Lucas and ducked her chin, her eyes very large and very blue.
“Please do call me Alice,” she murmured in a melodious tone. “Surely we are well enough acquainted to dispense with formalities. That is, if you agree, my lord.”
“Thank you, Alice. You may address me as Lucas, of course.”
“Better yet, call him Dash,” Henry interjected. “That’s what I prefer. My brother is considered quite the dashing fellow now that he’s the marquess.”
“Dash,” she repeated with a girlish smile. “Oh, I see, that is short for Dashell. I do like it, my lord. May I use it?”
He cast an irritated glare at Henry, who knew full well that Lucas despised being addressed by the same nickname as their profligate sire. “I’d rather you did not,” he said in a clipped tone. “My brother is jesting. You must always take whatever he says with a grain of salt.”
Henry clapped his hand over the lapel of his burgundy coat. “Such an insult. What will Miss Kipling think of you branding me a prankster? She’ll believe my word is not to be trusted.”
Perry Davenport shifted his long, lanky form in his chair. He was a fair-haired fellow, not as dissolute as Henry and more a follower than a leader. “Do give her some credit, Henry. She’s more well-mannered than that.”
“Traitor,” Henry accused, reaching out to jab Perry in the arm. “You should be defending your old chum, namely me. Isn’t that right, Miss Kipling?”
Alice parted her rosy lips. She appeared confused by the banter and gazed appealingly at Lucas. “I … I…”
“Stop badgering her,” Lucas ordered his brother. “I’ve had enough of your foolishness.”
“Aw, Dash, you oughtn’t interrupt her,” Henry said. “According to an article I read recently, ladies should be encouraged to state their opinions. And they should study algebra and geography instead of etiquette.”
“How very shocking!” Mrs. Kipling exclaimed, setting down her teacup so that it rattled in the saucer. “I would
never allow my Alice to speak out of turn. Nor to fill her pretty head with such inappropriate masculine topics! Where did you read such a thing, Lord Henry?”
“In The Weekly Verdict,” he said. “It’s a thought-provoking newspaper dedicated to the betterment of mankind … and womankind, too.”
Mrs. Kipling harrumphed. “Such radical notions surely cannot be acceptable in polite society. Who would write such nonsense?”
“Someone by the name of Miss Cellany. Miscellany, do you see? It’s quite the clever pen name. That’s why I remembered it.” Henry grinned at Lucas. “You must have read it, too, Dash. After all, I found the news sheet on the breakfast table last week.”
Lucas controlled the urge to grind his teeth. He had picked up the paper from a newsstand outside Parliament after overhearing several other MPs discussing it. He had found the article in question to be well written, though largely preposterous in its assertions. “The Weekly Verdict is a tabloid full of sensationalist drivel. Nevertheless, it’s important for one in my position to keep abreast of what these extremists are proposing.”
“I applaud you, my lord, for your foresight,” Mrs. Kipling gushed. “Why, without leaders like you, the rabble might revolt against their betters. The next thing you know they’ll be calling for a guillotine in Hyde Park!”
Alice made a squeak of distress. “Oh, Mama, don’t say such a frightful thing! Lucas, you will keep us safe, won’t you?”
Long lashes fringed her blue eyes as she regarded him imploringly. He felt a stirring that was more protectiveness than passion. Despite her beauty, Alice Kipling really was quite young and naïve. At times like this, he felt as if he were robbing the cradle. “Of course,” he said.
A girl just out of the schoolroom was the ideal age to marry, he told himself. She could be easily molded into the perfect wife. More importantly, Alice’s dowry would ease the crushing burden of his debts. He could consolidate the mortgages on his several estates and make many critical improvements. The leaky roof on his ancestral home in West Sussex needed replacement, the addition of drainage would increase the revenue from his pastureland, and the ramshackle cottages of his tenants could be repaired.